I Am a Girl from Africa

by Elizabeth Nyamayaro

  We raise our hands up, pinkies pressed together. “I promise, Lizzy, I promise,” she says, and gently pulls our fingers apart.

  Time goes by, as days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months, and finally the school year has ended, and it has been nearly one year since I moved to Epworth. When I receive my report card, I see I have failed every subject. I am hugely disappointed. When Amai sees the results, she is equally distressed. “Eeee, Lizzy,” she says, and I feel ashamed, knowing I have let her down.

  * * *

  One morning she calls me in from the yard, where I’ve been playing with Memo and Osi. I find her sitting on the sofa folding clothes into a small bag. It is a week before Christmas, a few weeks since the school year ended, and Amai has just come back from the Harare city center, where she goes each year to buy scraps from an Indian fabric store to sew the children’s holiday clothes. Amai says there is never enough money to buy the children new clothes and shoes. Baba works for an Indian man, bagging groceries in his small shop, but it’s not enough money to take care of the house and the children, and there is never enough to buy food, never enough to replace the two worn blankets or even to pay school fees. Amai is forever searching for money: selling mafatty buns outside the school; knitting school sweaters to sell to other parents; raising and selling chickens and rabbits; selling vegetables from a stand in the yard—eventually scraping together just enough, after paying for school fees and food, to plead with the store owner to sell her fabric scraps because she doesn’t have enough for the real-real fabric which is too expensive.

  I notice she is folding one of my dresses instead of stitching together fabric scrap clothes. This is odd.

  “Where are we going?”

  She says nothing, just zips the bag closed.

  “Are we going to Goromonzi?” I feel a surge of excitement and wait anxiously for her answer. Amai promised me I could visit Gogo during the first school holiday, but when the time came, she said, “Eeee, Lizzy. Us, we need help searching for money.” I learned how to braid hair, and I stayed in Epworth braiding as many as eight heads of hair per day. When the second school holiday arrived, it was the same: no money. I eventually gave up and stopped asking Amai about visiting Gogo. Could it be that God has answered my prayers, that I am going back to Goromonzi after all this time? I will finally see Gogo!

  “Lizzy, you should get ready,” Amai says, and I throw my arms around her and leave quickly for the washing shack before she can change her mind.

  When I return from the washing shack, Amai says, “Here! It’s yours,” handing me a new green dress with a white ribbon around the waist. I haven’t had a new dress from Amai since the day I left Goromonzi, and now I feel sad, because Amai has used money that she doesn’t have to buy me a new dress. She sits down on the sofa and stares into empty space, looking completely lost. How will she search for money when I am away? Who will take care of the house and the children? I feel guilty, but I put on the dress so as not to hurt her feelings. I am sad that Amai needs me, when all I want is my Gogo.

  I thank Amai, and she wraps her arms tightly around me until a car horn sounds.

  “Your uncle Sam is here,” she says, letting me go.

  Uncle Sam is married to Amai’s older sister, Aunt Jane, and he has visited us when he occasionally drives Baba home from work. He speaks English and German from his time abroad, and when he speaks our Shona language, he sounds funny-funny. Still, he is friendly, and I am grateful that he is taking me to Gogo.

  I turn to look at Amai’s sad face and wonder if I should stay. But I know I must see Gogo; it has been too long.

  Outside in the yard, Osi, Memo, and Chio are sad to see me go. “Don’t worry, I will be back soon-soon.” I promise to take them next time. “I will teach you how to pick juicy black berries in the Good Forest,” I say then hug them goodbye. I get into Uncle Sam’s car, set my head against the window and quickly fall asleep. I dream that I have fallen into the river in the Hyena Forest. As Gogo reaches for me, the water pulls me away and I scream and scream until Uncle Sam gently shakes me awake.

  “We’re here,” he says softly.

  I am so excited to see Gogo, but when I wake up, I see bright, flickering lights everywhere. I hear the voices of many people and cars honking. This is a city. This is not Goromonzi. Am I still dreaming? I blink, but when I open my eyes, the lights are still there. They seem even brighter, the city noises that much louder.

  Still in shock, I follow Uncle Sam when he says “hurry up!” and we walk through a black gate, down a narrow corridor, then up four flights of stairs. He opens the door into a room and flips a switch, flooding the space with light. I have never been in a house before with this much light, and I blink several times as my eyes adjust. When they do, I realize I have never been in a house full of such beautiful furniture. A wide window is trimmed with lacy white curtains, pulled back to reveal a busy road and fast cars. A green, shiny sofa that looks long enough to seat three people faces a large television sitting on top of a wooden cabinet. Two small, matching chairs sit at both ends of the sofa, one directly below the window. In the middle of the room is a small glass table. I look down and see that the floor is made of small pieces of wood glued together. When I look to my left, I see a spotless kitchen through an open door.

  “Where are we?” I ask. I feel as if I’ve walked into a dream.

  “Home.”

  “Where is Gogo?”

  Uncle Sam pauses and then asks, “Gogo?”

  I ask him several times where we are, and he repeats that we are home. I follow Uncle Sam past a room with a white toilet like those I have seen in schoolbooks, but never for real. In what he calls “my room” is a real bed, but I have never slept in a bed before. He shows me a wardrobe—a big cabinet with wire hangers—where I can hang my new school uniform for my new school.

  “What new school?” I am utterly confused and also wildly disappointed; I was meant to be in Goromonzi tonight.

  “Didn’t your amai explain? You’re going to Admiral Tait Primary School.”

  This makes no sense. I was going to see Gogo and then return to school with Jeri.

  Seeing the bewildered look on my face, he says, “It is one of the best private British schools. You’ll like it, you’ll see. You will learn English, and then you can speak English with me.” Uncle Sam smiles at me before leaving the room.

  I’m so disoriented I can hardly see straight. Didn’t Amai say I was going to Goromonzi to see Gogo? No, she didn’t. I asked her, but she never answered. None of it makes sense, unless… she has gotten rid of me for a second time. Amai has abandoned me again.

  I feel a burning sensation in my body that spreads from the inside out. I hear a terrible ringing in my ears and I fall to the floor, curling myself into a ball. I stare up at a black spot on the wall and wonder what I did wrong. Why doesn’t Amai want me? I tried so hard to take care of the house and the children. I tried hard to search for money, to make her happy, to make her love me. How can this be happening?

  Eventually I fall asleep on the floor, and the river nightmare I had in the car continues, only this time Gogo is standing on the other side. She lowers her face and walks away, leaving me stranded with the rushing river between us and no way to cross. I wake up with my heart pounding and spring onto my feet, legs still shaking. I must get to Gogo right now. I don’t know where I am or how far away Goromonzi is; I don’t know which road I would take to get there, or even if it’s possible to walk there on my own. All I know is that I cannot stay here. I need to get back to my home in Goromonzi. Just like God once parted the water and led the children of Israel to the Promised Land, I know that God will lead me back to Goromonzi. Yes! He will lead me, I say in my head.

  I tiptoe down the corridor, careful not to disturb Uncle Sam, who is snoring loudly in his bedroom next door. I leave my bag of clothes behind so I can walk quickly to Goromonzi. Outside the sky is dark and the air is cold, so I tiptoe back through the house to pull a sweater
from my black bag. There, sitting on top of my neatly folded clothes is a piece of paper. I unfold it carefully and read:

  Dear Lizzy,

  Uyu mukana wako. Wekuti uve munhu wandakatadza kuyita ini.

  (This is your opportunity. I want you to become what I was unable to be.)

  Ndinokuda, Amai

  (I love you, Amai)

  When you educate a girl, you educate a nation.

  —Malawian proverb

  6

  It is my second year in London, and I stand in the doorway, scanning the small room for an empty chair. The rows of neatly organized desks are nearly filled: Three young women draped in vibrant saris chat away in Hindi in the front. Five guys kitted out in urban streetwear—bright red-and-white Adidas tracksuits, slouchy gray sweatshirts, and baseball caps—huddle in the back. I flash a warm smile at an African girl wearing a colorful head scarf, who smiles back, then perch myself by the window, still reveling in the fact that I am here. I organize my pens and my notebook. I am ready.

  “Welcome to your first lesson in International Relations,” announces a neatly dressed man. I remember the moment I got my acceptance letter, the exact wording: “Congratulations, your application for admission to The London College, University College Kensington, as an undergraduate student, has been successful.” Sitting at my desk, I feel the weight of the moment, anchoring me to this room and to this, my first day at university.

  I did it, Gogo. I finally made it! I think to myself, thinking of the struggle it’s taken to get here, to London College, one year after my arrival in London. The journey has been both harrowing and remarkable, sometimes in the same hour: I remember how I cried myself to sleep so many nights when I failed to find a job; how I skipped meals, drinking water to curb my hunger so I could save every pound I could for university fees; how I hid my pain from Gogo and my family in my letters so they wouldn’t worry; how the hostel manager cruelly demanded I start paying rent with money I still didn’t have, and tried to throw me out on the street a second time after I solved his pest problem. I look out over the room and wonder about everyone’s unique stories and how hard they’ve worked to make the dream of attending university a reality.

  The memories make my eyes sting with tears. I hide my face and stare through the open window, allowing crisp, cold air to filter in. Outside the weather is as glorious as I feel: limitless clear, blue skies. A sky for a new beginning. The classroom overlooks a high-rise building of low-income housing, where the apartments look like shoeboxes stacked one on top of the other. Television satellite dishes, colorful flowerpots, and wet clothes draped over balconies brighten up the building’s lackluster façade, which is in stark contrast to its posh surroundings—Notting Hill Gate in West London, with its vintage clothing stores, quaint bookstores, and coffee shops. The building reminds me of the pictures Val has shown me of his home in Ukraine. So many stories in that building as well, I’m certain. This city is full of stories.

  Val, my first friend at the hostel, has become a great friend, not only keeping me company and telling me about his life, but also helping me get a job in my moment of greatest need. When the bellowing hostel manager threatened to kick me out that second time, I pleaded with Val to introduce me to his boss at the recruitment agency. He had just quit for a better engineering job, but I would happily take his old one, and I did.

  “Thirty calls a day, nothing less,” the twitchy, cold-eyed boss shouted, directing me to an empty cubicle and slamming a large telephone book on the desk in front of me. With that, I finally got my first regular paying job in London, becoming a sales rep in charge of cold-calling information technology companies to secure hiring contracts for the company, which is where I still work part-time. I only earn a small base salary plus commission, but I have worked hard, quickly learning how to close small deals and then large ones, increasing my weekly earnings and then savings, month by month, until I had enough money to move out of the youth hostel, and eventually enough money to enroll in university.

  I am finally an undergraduate student, working on my degree in International Relations, a prerequisite for a job with the United Nations, and back on track to achieving my dream. I searched for months for the right university. I wanted to go to one of the best universities, like Oxford, or Cambridge, or the London School of Economics, but when I looked at the fees, they were too exorbitant. I shifted my focus to the highly ranked but smaller universities that, while affordable, still offered accredited degree programs.

  When I was wiping down kitchen counters and setting rat traps less than a year ago, this goal—which I have held for nearly a decade—seemed utterly impossible. I am the first of my immediate family to go to university, the first to have access to higher education. I am overcome with gratitude for this tremendous mukana (opportunity). It is one of so many in my life for which I am deeply grateful.

  * * *

  The first morning after Amai sends me to live with Aunt Jane and Uncle Sam in Harare I storm into the kitchen, still clutching the note from Amai.

  “What does this mean?” I ask Uncle Sam. I feel so broken and upset that I am no longer intimidated by him, and I can tell he is a kind man. I will demand an answer. Uncle Sam is sitting at the kitchen table eating white toast with marmalade jam and drinking a cup of coffee. He is smartly dressed in a crisp white shirt and pressed gray trousers. The light streaming in from the kitchen window bounces off his round wire-rim glasses, neatly tucked behind his small ears, that make his brown eyes look as big as an owl’s, only more caring and kindhearted. That he is so nice to me only spurs me to press for answers to my questions.

  He looks at me, reaches for the note, and says, “Your amai has asked that we take care of you. I thought she had explained everything to you.”

  I am breathless with confusion and hurt. No, Amai has not explained anything to me, because she never does, and now she has abandoned me for the second time. I don’t need or want to be taken care of like a helpless child. Gogo taught me how to take care of myself, and I looked after the entire house and the children on my own at Amai’s. I do not need to be watched or coddled or protected. I am eleven years old.

  I look away from him, still brimming with pain. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Ohhh, I have no doubt, young lady. Your Amai just wants to give you the best education, that’s all.”

  “I already go to school in Epworth.”

  “I know,” he says. “But your grades aren’t great. This is your chance for a new start at one of the best private schools.” I don’t know what a private school is, and neither do I care to attend one.

  “Here, let’s eat and then I will show you around your new school today,” he says, sliding a piece of buttered toast toward me. I do not sit down. I don’t want to eat, and I don’t want to see any new school with him. All I want now is to go back to Goromonzi, and then maybe back to Epworth to see my best friend, Jeri. Even then I am not sure I ever want to see Amai again. I need to be as far away from her as possible, so she can never abandon me again.

  “We will leave in just a few minutes,” Uncle Sam says kindly, and takes a sip of coffee.

  And so, like so many things that have to do with Amai, and what she does or does not tell me, it seems I have no choice in this school situation, as it has already been decided for me. I am going to a new private school, whether I like it or not. After breakfast, Uncle Sam walks with me to Admiral Tait, pointing out details and landmarks along the way.

  “We live in an area called Eastlea, and these types of houses are called flats. Our flat is on the fourth floor,” he explains as we walk down the stairs. I watch his feet land on each stair slowly and carefully, keeping the creased ironed lines of his trousers sharp and straight. I decide that Uncle Sam walks slowly, and not with purpose like Gogo. Once outside the building, I look back at the flats; now that it is daylight, I can see how tall the buildings are. The idea of living in a flat so high up terrifies me. What if there is terrible rain and the bui
lding crumbles around us, like some of the houses in Epworth do after a storm?

  I keep my thoughts to myself and walk silently next to Uncle Sam up the busy road with plenty of cars that make so much noise—honking and speeding up and passing one another—that I can barely hear Uncle Sam as he continues to explain things to me: how the big road right in front of the flats is called Samora Machel Avenue; how if I turn right and walk alongside the avenue I will be able to reach the city center in less than an hour, and if I turn left I can be at my new school in forty minutes; how I should always make sure that I wait for the traffic light to turn green before crossing the street or a car might run me over. There are no traffic lights in Goromonzi or Epworth, so I stare curiously at them as they change from red to green, then watch Uncle Sam’s gentle face, noticing the care and excitement in his eyes.

  I know that Uncle Sam wants me to be excited too; maybe he wants me to be the child he never had. Amai has told me that when Uncle Sam and Aunt Jane got married, they tried to have children, but God did not hear their prayers, which made them both very sad. Now that I am here, I can tell Uncle Sam is thrilled to have me around, to teach me things, to have a child to care for. I want to be happy with him, but I still feel empty inside.

  Along the avenue, we walk past women weaving baskets at a small market and people dressed in smart clothes moving up and down the path, clearly in a rush to get somewhere. We pass large, attractive houses, some surrounded by concrete walls and others with neatly cut hedges. Beautiful, bright jacaranda trees line the avenue, carpeting the pavement with their bell-shaped purple flowers. I take in everything, remaining silent, until we finally reach the school.

  “This is one of the best private schools in the country, called Admiral Tait Primary School. There should be plenty of British children in your class, which will be great for improving your English,” Uncle Sam explains with a smile. He sounds so positive and hopeful, but I remain wary.